all sweat from the heat of the gas lamp. Luis succeeds at last in removing his rifle from his trousers and jams the barrel into the target’s eye socket.
Do I kill him fast? he says. He is looking at me. Claudia and Eduardo are looking at me too. Pedro stands watch at the edge of the
tugurio
.
For a moment I am taken aback. Killing has never been the business of the
gallada
, unless things have changed with that too, in the four months I have been away. Maybe they are seeking to impress me, now that I have my office job. Or maybe that is why they asked me to come with them.
Do I kill him fast? Luis says again. His voice is tight—it sounds as though he is really asking for my answer.
What is his crime?
Luis falls silent. He lifts his gun and paces two steps this way, two steps the other way, stooped underneath the cardboard roof. The target twists his head up from the dirt and looks around for the first time. He sees Eduardo, who is holding his legs, and Claudia, and then Luis. He sees Luis’s hand, trembling on the trigger guard.
He has many crimes, says Luis. But he called my mother the offspring of a dog.
I don’t even know you, the target says. He swings around in my direction. And I am protected. Ask anyone.
I glance quickly at Luis, who opens his mouth.
The target follows my gaze and turns back toward Luis. When he speaks his voice is low and sly. What are you doing? he murmurs. His face is shiny in the gaslight. We both know you are no
sicario
.
Breathing hard, Luis grabs the G3 with both hands and jams the barrel into the target’s mouth. I can hear the metal muzzle clatter against his teeth.
Ask him who is the offspring of a dog now, I say. I find myself thinking of four days ago, the calm face in front of my Glock. Ask if he will tell you that. Saliva starts to run from the target’s mouth, quickly turning pink.
I will tell you, the target croaks out, whatever you want me to! He is not a tough anymore; no
soldado
, that is for certain. His words are slurred because his mouth is forced half open—it moves like the mouth of Claudia’s demented mother. Please, he says.
Don’t you get it? Luis shouts. The fringes of his hair drip with sweat.
From the ground, mouth ajar, the target shakes his head. I’m sorry, he groans.
Why are you sorry? I don’t want you to say what I want you to say!
We all watch Luis.
I want you to
want
to say it.
Okay, man.
Okay?
Okay, man.
What are you going to do? He removes the gun from the target’s mouth and presses it into his cheek.
I’m going to say what you want—
Luis’s frown deepens.
I mean, I’m going to want to say it, I’m going to—
What are you? Luis breaks in.
It takes a second for the target to comprehend. I am the son of a dog, he says.
What kind of dog?
A dog. A bitch. A dirty, flea-bitten, whore of a bitch.
What else?
I am a dog that is ugly, that is an imbecile, that looks like a disease-ridden rat, that smells like shit…
You eat your own shit, too, don’t you?
For a moment Luis sounds like a gangster in an American movie I recently saw in the city. His face even carries the same sneer.
Yes, yes. The target reaches for a piece of donut next to his face, rubs it into the dirt before stuffing it in his mouth. Claudia turns away. It is strange the things a girl will tolerate and will not.
From a distance comes the sound of ringing bells. I move to a gap in the cardboard to check with Pedro. After a moment he shakes his head and calls out in his high voice, Gasoline trucks.
Luis says, What else?
His mouth full of dirt, the target says, I am a dog that eats its own shit, and drinks its own piss, and, and—
But he cannot fully untangle his mess of words because at thatmoment Luis lifts his G3, flips it around and smashes the aluminum butt into the target’s head. I think I hear a soft crack. For a brief moment Luis looks surprised, then he waves one finger from side to side in the manner of a parent scolding a child.
You
Do I kill him fast? he says. He is looking at me. Claudia and Eduardo are looking at me too. Pedro stands watch at the edge of the
tugurio
.
For a moment I am taken aback. Killing has never been the business of the
gallada
, unless things have changed with that too, in the four months I have been away. Maybe they are seeking to impress me, now that I have my office job. Or maybe that is why they asked me to come with them.
Do I kill him fast? Luis says again. His voice is tight—it sounds as though he is really asking for my answer.
What is his crime?
Luis falls silent. He lifts his gun and paces two steps this way, two steps the other way, stooped underneath the cardboard roof. The target twists his head up from the dirt and looks around for the first time. He sees Eduardo, who is holding his legs, and Claudia, and then Luis. He sees Luis’s hand, trembling on the trigger guard.
He has many crimes, says Luis. But he called my mother the offspring of a dog.
I don’t even know you, the target says. He swings around in my direction. And I am protected. Ask anyone.
I glance quickly at Luis, who opens his mouth.
The target follows my gaze and turns back toward Luis. When he speaks his voice is low and sly. What are you doing? he murmurs. His face is shiny in the gaslight. We both know you are no
sicario
.
Breathing hard, Luis grabs the G3 with both hands and jams the barrel into the target’s mouth. I can hear the metal muzzle clatter against his teeth.
Ask him who is the offspring of a dog now, I say. I find myself thinking of four days ago, the calm face in front of my Glock. Ask if he will tell you that. Saliva starts to run from the target’s mouth, quickly turning pink.
I will tell you, the target croaks out, whatever you want me to! He is not a tough anymore; no
soldado
, that is for certain. His words are slurred because his mouth is forced half open—it moves like the mouth of Claudia’s demented mother. Please, he says.
Don’t you get it? Luis shouts. The fringes of his hair drip with sweat.
From the ground, mouth ajar, the target shakes his head. I’m sorry, he groans.
Why are you sorry? I don’t want you to say what I want you to say!
We all watch Luis.
I want you to
want
to say it.
Okay, man.
Okay?
Okay, man.
What are you going to do? He removes the gun from the target’s mouth and presses it into his cheek.
I’m going to say what you want—
Luis’s frown deepens.
I mean, I’m going to want to say it, I’m going to—
What are you? Luis breaks in.
It takes a second for the target to comprehend. I am the son of a dog, he says.
What kind of dog?
A dog. A bitch. A dirty, flea-bitten, whore of a bitch.
What else?
I am a dog that is ugly, that is an imbecile, that looks like a disease-ridden rat, that smells like shit…
You eat your own shit, too, don’t you?
For a moment Luis sounds like a gangster in an American movie I recently saw in the city. His face even carries the same sneer.
Yes, yes. The target reaches for a piece of donut next to his face, rubs it into the dirt before stuffing it in his mouth. Claudia turns away. It is strange the things a girl will tolerate and will not.
From a distance comes the sound of ringing bells. I move to a gap in the cardboard to check with Pedro. After a moment he shakes his head and calls out in his high voice, Gasoline trucks.
Luis says, What else?
His mouth full of dirt, the target says, I am a dog that eats its own shit, and drinks its own piss, and, and—
But he cannot fully untangle his mess of words because at thatmoment Luis lifts his G3, flips it around and smashes the aluminum butt into the target’s head. I think I hear a soft crack. For a brief moment Luis looks surprised, then he waves one finger from side to side in the manner of a parent scolding a child.
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